


The Dawn

by SennaLaureen



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, set somewhere during the second season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:18:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennaLaureen/pseuds/SennaLaureen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold and John couldn't save seomeone's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dawn

During the time between Nathans death and the moment John Reese entered Finch's life, Harold had a lot of these days: when the darkness filled every corner of his mind with guilt and regret, when his leg hurt far more than it usually did as if it wanted to punish him for that happened to his best friend and all the others, when Harold felt every single life he couldn't save or refused to save weigh him down, and the simple task of getting out of bed in the morning was almost as impossible as flying.

Nathans death, its circumstances, and the separation from Grace turned out to be the beginning of a long, cold night for Harold. But one day, when John routinely put down a cup of green tea next to Harold, and behind him the board was filling with photographs of people they saved - Harold suddenly realized that the sun was back, and it was shining through the umbrella John held above him, when they went out together, through the undercurrent worry in Johns voice whenever Harold saw no other option as to take matters into his own hands and leave the safety of the library for the sake of another number, another life. It was shining through John's softened expression whenever he watched Harold, convinced that the other was engrossed in the monitors. The sun warmed Harold's skin whenever he watched John play with Bear, his laugher filling the library together with excited barking.

Moments like these filled Harold's heart with joy and happiness and hope he thought he lost forever, feelings only Grace made him feel. He was well aware that this meant, never was the one to lie to himself, and never was Harold under the illusion that his feelings for John would ever be reciprocated, that they would ever be more than friends. And their friendship was enough for Harold, had to be: John brought the sun back into Harold's life, after all, he couldn't expect more.

But bad days happened nonetheless: mostly rainy days, when even the sky seemed to mourn all those people Harold deleted from Nathan's computer, denying them the small chance to be saved. Today was one of those days, Harold knew it before he even opened his eyes in the morning: the pain spread from his neck down his spine, and from his leg upwards, and the horror of the nightmare - _John was shot, he was dying and there was nothing Harold could!_ \- coated his entire body in cold sweat. He drew a deep breath, slowly regaining control over his mind and body, overcoming the urge to call John to make sure he was allright. He knew John was fine, as fine as he could be after being winged and losing a number anyway.

They already lost a couple of numbers and learned to cope with that, so Harold knew that this was going to be over eventually. Still, going through the motions was like fighting through a thick fog, and a voice in his head kept whispering, pointing out all the things he did wrong, that cost this man a life and endangered John. Harold fought the fatigue in his limbs and hurried to get dressed in hopes that there was another number he could busy himself with, and hoping to meet John at the library. Being around John, sharing the unspoken grief over a failed op always helped Harold, and he suspected it helped John too.

Before leaving his apartment, Harold gripped his cane: as much as he tried to overcome the pain, it didn't subside yet, and he'd be quicker with it. Tired as he was, Harold didn't care that the cane made him feel more handicapped than he already was showing with his limp.

Outside the rain was soaking his coat, and Harold hurried to open his umbrella, before he took the few stairs to the pavement. Turning to the right, Harold's heart skipped a beat: John was coming towards him, a cup in one hand and his umbrella in the other.

"Good morning, Finch," Johns smile was barely visible in the corners of his mouth and the wrinkles around his eyes. As he met Harold's gaze, his expression softened, and he let out a breath, as if a burden was lifted from his shoulders. Harold knew that, because he felt the same: sunbeams lighting up the fog around him, making the air easier to breathe.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," the smile came easily upon his lips. John put away his own umbrella, and replaced Harold's with the cup of steaming sencha tea, all while making sure Harold didn't get wet.

"I wanted to accompany you to the diner for breakfast."

The fact that John knew he skipped breakfast made Harold's heart beat quicker. "Let's go then."

~~~~~~~

Later, on their way to the library they picked up Bear from Tyler, and now the wet dog was making a mess everywhere. Harold caught himself not caring very much: watching John wrestle with Bear distracted him from the disappointment that they didn't receive a new number yet. The desire to somehow make up for the last failed operation hummed beneath Harold's skin, making him restless. He took place in his seat, and checked all his systems, then all their emergency escape plans - fake IDs, safe houses far away from New York, cars hidden all around the city, train lines and timetables -, as he felt John's hands on his neck, gently rubbing circles into his stiff muscles, taking the increased pain away again.

"Relax, Harold," John's voice was loaded, caring and warm, and Harold lied his trembling hands in his lap and took a shaking breath. Across from the table, on the glass board was a photo of the man they failed to save yesterday, and Harold felt tears walling up in his eyes just by watching at it. After all it seemed that he hadn't learned how to deal with it. "It was not your fault."

"I should have realized, it was a trap, John. I watched the cameras across the street, I should have noticed the other agents...."

"If anyone is to blame, then me, Harold! I was trained to deal with situations like this, I should have been able to handle it. But I wasn't."

Suddenly, Harold was furious at the bitter tone in John's voice. He turned the chair around and rose to meet John's eyes. "Don't you dare blame yourself! You got shot because of me!..."

"But that's the point, Harold, I don't blame anyone!" John gripped Harold's shoulders, pleading the other to understand. "We cannot save everyone, no matter how hard we try! Yes, we failed to save Alexander Showen yesterday, but we will save the next number, and the number after that, because we are still here." At these words Harold's gaze shifted from John's eyes to the bandaged wound under his sleeve - a reminder how close Harold came to losing John. It didn't escape the other's attention. "Yes, I'm still here, Harold," John's voice was back to being a soft whisper, and his hands cupped Harold's face.

It was completely unusual of Harold to let himself go that much, but John's hands were so gentle, his eyes so caring, and he himself became the embodiment of home for Harold: safe and understanding. Just thinking about losing him filled Harold with terror. He let out another shaking breath.

"You've got me, and I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Ever since admitting to his attraction, Harold often fantasized about kissing John, imagined how the other would taste, how soft John's lips would be. Now, that John was actually kissing him, Harold's brain short-circuited, leaving him completely motionless. As John was drawing back, Harold realized that his lack of response was interpreted wrong, and pulled John back, belatedly reciprocating the kiss. The other let out a relieved sigh, encircling Harold in his arms, pulling him closer.

Harold's brain did a short diagnostic, and restarted itself, registering with renewed attention every detail and filing it away, as if Harold could wake up any second and realize it was just a dream. One of his hands came up to rest on John's chest, counting his heartbeat beneath the clothes, the other was on his neck, pulling John ever closer, afraid the other would vanish.

Finally, they parted, gasping for air, and John rested his forehead against Harold's. He grinned from ear to ear, and if Harold didn't know better, he'd thought the man in front of him was no older than twenty five. His own smile split his face in two, the butterflies in his stomach making him feel much younger than Harold really was, reminding him of better times, unclouded by death and grief and guilt.

John leaned forward and put their lips together again, this time slower and thorough, savouring every moment. They fit like two puzzle pieces, worn out and faded, but making one whole together.

"Whether you like it or not, you are stuck with me, Harold."


End file.
